


Diamonds

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Edging, Heisting all across Europe, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Shibari, Smut (by popular demand), also motels, sub(ish) Andres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: Throughout their time together, Andrés enjoys discovering new things about his engineer. They plan and execute heists with varying degrees of success, run from the consequences of their actions then run headfirst into some other actions that bear unavoidable consequences.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 35
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/gifts).



> I swear I can write things that are not Shibari, but believe it or not I got half of this in an actual dream so yeah.

The first time he saw a brand new facet of Martin, his engineer, his literal partner in crime, it was accidental. The Argentine was stumbling home after a night with god-knows-who, spent god-knows-where. Even though it was morning, Martín was still a bit drunk and Andrés had to practically carry him to his bed. He felt something… strange, when he touched the back of the mollified body leaning against him. It felt out of place yet familiar, and Andrés traced his fingers along the rope - it was definitely a rope - until Martín stiffened, realising the touch. 

“Is this rope?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Not the most eloquent of questions, to which he got a pretty concise answer nonetheless.

“It’s a sex thing.”

So he let it slide, helping Martín on his bed, toying for a minute with the idea of taking his pants off to make him more comfortable, but dropping it when the other man fell asleep within seconds of setting his head on the pillow.

Later in the day, Martín came to find him. He wasn’t fully sobered up, that much was clear, and he was downing a glass of what looked like milk, which he set down on the wooden table - without a coaster - and looked at Andrés, a look of proud resignation on his face.

“You need to help me out of this.” And he unbuttoned his shirt, opening it to reveal an intricate pattern of knots that went from over his shoulders to underneath the hem of his pants. “I got completely wasted last night and I can’t even tell where this thing ends. I mean, the ends are not where I thought they would be and then there’s this giant web right on my lower spine, but I can’t get it… Ugh. Sleeping on these fucking knots was torture, and I need to sleep, and I can’t with this on, so--”

But then he widened his eyes in panic, running to the bathroom with his hand over his mouth. Andrés heard him retching and thought it was only courteous to go help somehow. When he got there, Martín was dry-heaving, knelt above the porcelain bowl. 

“Please do me a kindness and kill me now, because we both know I’m lying when I say that I’ll never drink again.”

“Martín, you’re the dumbest clever man I know.” A truth, Andrés knew. But that was Martín, Andrés knew him, it’s how he’s always been. He thought he knew everything about his engineer, except for that, the apparently kinky side - he studied the brief flashes of rope he could see when Martín brushed his teeth - it was new and it intrigued him. “Feeling better?”

“Much. But I will die if I don’t get some sleep, there aren’t painkillers strong enough for--” He was luckily close enough to the toilet to spew again, dropping to his knees barely in time. “Fuck, why do I keep doing this, ugh.” He wiped his mouth, spitting a couple of more times, then turned and sat fully on the floor, legs spreading between Andrés’. “Please get this thing off me.”

Andrés looked at him and let out an annoyed huff. He knelt in front of Martín, opening his shirt to see exactly what he was up against. “Can you stand up?

“Give me a second.”

“Yeah, sure.” He took off the wrinkled shirt, taking a look at the multitude of knots as he did so. “May I ask… why?”

“It’s a sex thing” Martín repeated, then added, “I don’t know. It’s pretty new to me too, but it feels pretty fucking amazing to be wrapped up like this. Not right now though, turns out it’s not conducive to the best sleep. Okay.” He staggered to his feet, bracing himself against Andrés.

“How low, uh. How low does this go?”

“All the way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Try to contain yourself, okay?” Martín joked, but maybe meant it a little bit, too. He unfastened his pants, shimmying out of them and kicking them across the floor. 

He was naked - well, except for the rope - and Andrés couldn’t help himself. “Didn’t you have underwear when you left?”

“I did, yes.”

“And… you just… lost them?”

“Not lost them per se, I think I left them at that guy’s place.”

“I see.” And Andrés did see, he saw way more than he was honestly ready to. Because that rope, with all its twists and patterns, was also wrapped around Martín’s cock, small lengths radiating from around it like rays of sunshine. And Martín, the shameless, drunk fuck, was half hard, his cock hanging heavy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

He did his best not to stare; after all, dicks were not his particular flavor of fun, and focused instead on finding where the rope was tied off. After a bit of probing and pulling, he finally found the ends of the rope, twisted around themselves above Martín’s hips. 

“This is really complicated. Please tell me the guy did this sober, because if he didn’t, he’s an artist.”

“He _is_ an artist,” Martín agreed, “and yes, we were both sober. At the start, at least. I think he improvised quite a bit towards the end.”

It took longer than the both of them thought it would, Andrés getting the knots tighter on accident a couple of times, softly whipping Martín once or twice with the ends and giving him a few rope burns before he realised that pulling the rope further from the skin allowed him to slide the ends without causing more unnecessary pain. He kept things as clinical as he could, accepting help when he undid the ends around the base of Martín’s cock - just the cock, he noticed - undoing the pattern that had showcased him so well. 

The spider-web on the lower back was a particular pain to undo, and he knew that he couldn’t muddle through it because he needed the rope to come off clean, no knots, if he were to undo the rest of it, the bits that twisted around Martín’s torso, hugging his chest. His efforts were successful when he reached the last couple of loops around his middle, the long ends of the rope coiled around them across the bathroom floor. Martín shimmied free of the last bits himself, letting it drop off his thighs as he stepped out with a deep sigh. 

He tried not to, but Andrés kept checking the welts and imprints it had left on his skin. Lines, diamonds, the faint pattern of the rope weave, knots - mesmerizing, he found. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as my head does,” Martín said, patting him a couple of times on his arm, then turned around to take a leak. 

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” Andrés left the bathroom, still processing this surprising new side of his friend.

*

It was years until Andrés ran into a new face of Martín. They had been planning their heist for months and on the day, the lady at the counter - which they had all the leverage against - didn’t make it to the jewelry store. Instead, the actual manager stepped in. The worst possible replacement; he was built like a typical bodyguard, tall and brawny and menacing and way more difficult to intimidate. He didn’t mean for it to happen like it did, to leave Martín to deal with the manager, but one of the hostages was being unnecessarily difficult so Andrés had to deal with that. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Martín, but the circumstances seemed heavily skewed against them. Maybe that’s why he was so surprised, minutes later, to see Martín tower over the kneeling mountain of a man, gun pressed to his forehead, looking so threatening, so powerful and completely in charge. 

They made off with everything they had planned to, minutes before the police even found out they had broken in, and they felt absolutely invincible. They left town immediately, spending the first night in a cheap motel a couple of cities over. It was hard to fall asleep, even after the adrenaline had started to wear off, harder still with the hiss of the shower blasting through the paper-thin walls. Martín was taking too long in the shower, long enough for Andrés to know exactly what he was doing in there - he was relieving himself off the absolute high of the day. He knew because he felt it too, and he’d lie if he said it was the first time the thrill of success nested itself in his loins, hanging heavy, begging for release. 

He didn’t need to think of anything in particular when he palmed himself, cock already hard; always a mind of its own. After taking one more look at the bathroom door, just to make sure it was properly closed, Andrés sneaked his hand under his pajama bottoms, grabbing his cock, making quick and efficient work to get himself off. Treacherously, the flashes of skin and sweat and moans and limbs intertwined that he focused on got interspersed with images of the day’s heist - or rather, of Martín, his determined look, his stance. The water stopped before Andrés could get off, so he curled to the side, hiding the tent in the sheets, pretending to be asleep when Martín stepped back in the room, towel wrapped around his waist. _Quite peculiar_ , Andrés realised, suddenly aware of what he had been doing, and of what he was doing still: he didn’t turn away, indifferent, when Martín discarded the towel, baring the most appealing bottom he’d seen on a guy. He was the opposite of indifferent in fact, his cock twitching despite his clenched thighs. 

Andrés waited until the rhythmic breath in the bed beside his own turned into soft snores before going to the bathroom to relieve himself as well. Thinking about women, of course. Definitely not Martín, or his bottom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > The fact was, there was a naked and very erect Argentine in his bed, and Andrés was going to fuck him. And the thought simply delighted him. 
> 
> There's (actual) hurt and comfort (of sorts). 

It had been their closest call yet, and they were still not completely in the clear. The car was parked on the other side of a patch of trees - or forest, as Martín insisted on calling it, _wrongly_ \- and all that Andrés was hoping for was that the guards would not have dogs chase them, they were barely keeping a safe enough distance as it was. Martín was hurt pretty badly, having gotten quite the savage beating, but was luckily too pumped on adrenaline to feel the true extent of the pain he was supposed to be in. They ran, supporting each other when one slipped or fell, Andrés almost dragging Martín to the car and cramming him in the backseat. He drove off, the carefully planned route blessedly allowing them to get away by the skin of their teeth.

It hadn’t been a clean operation, quite the opposite of one in fact - Martín had gotten captured and Andrés found himself helplessly watching on a monitor how the other man got repeatedly beaten and how he took it all, resolute, defiant even. Even though he was immobilized and had, by the look of it, at least one cracked rib, he still acted like he was in charge, like he had a plan to escape - which, if he did, Andrés really wanted to know. It seemed that he did, but he had also gotten lucky. Before Andrés decided to shoot his way in, Martín had managed to get out of the handcuffs, to steal one of the guards’ guns and shoot him then the remaining two while not getting shot back. 

So they made it out without the diamonds, not ideal but they still had their lives and their freedom which Andrés accepted as a good enough win.

Another night at a forgotten motel, except this time the evening was taken not by celebrating but by patching wounds and carefully winding gauze. The rib was bruised, not broken, but that didn’t make it any easier for Martín who was trying desperately to control his breath and lessen the pain. Andrés had to pile all pillows and extra blankets to help Martín sleep as elevated as he could, but it was still hours before he felt the other man’s breaths become shallower, sleep finally overtaking Martín. 

That night, for the first time in years, Andrés had nightmares. He was in the hallway when the first shot was fired and he froze, then the next two came in quick succession and he felt like the breath was stolen from his lungs. Except, in his dreams, when he kicked open the door he didn’t see Martín, handcuffs still hanging off the wrist holding the gun. No. Instead he saw the most horrible, bloodiest scenes, the worst of which ended with Martín’s gray blue eyes glazed over, _empty_. It must have been the painkillers completely knocking out Martín, because he didn’t even stir when Andrés jutted up, panting and grabbing at the sheets, unsure whether the cry he made was real or just in his dream. It took ages to fall back asleep, and he did so nestled as close as he could to Martín, to his still warm body, one that he found was linked to himself way deeper than he thought possible. 

They ended up spending two weeks in that room, Martín slowly regaining his strength and most of his mobility. They’d taken to the habit of huddling together in their sleep, and even though it was more intimate than anything they had done before, neither of them acknowledged it. Until one night, when it was Martín who woke up with a strangled cry, and Andrés caught him in his arms immediately, as if to keep him safe from the torment in his dreams.

“Thank you.” Martín whispered as soon as he seemed to shake off the last remnants of the dream, still cradled in Andrés’ arms. “I keep seeing them, the guards. How easily they fell, how quick and _final_ it was.”

Andrés had felt it ever since that evening, the unspoken weight between them. It had been the first time that Martín had taken a life. Andrés could still remember his own first kill, years ago and not in dissimilar situations. Just like Martín, he hadn’t hesitated. However, after the initial turmoil, his mind managed to rationalize it neatly and cleanly - survival was an intrinsic instinct, he did what he had to do to protect himself. Martín, however, seemed to linger, to accept the guilt.

“I could have died.” 

“Yes.”

“It was really stupid though, wasn’t it? There were three of them, and were they just a second quicker to react, they would have killed me. Or you, seeing how your plan was to go in, blind, guns blazing.”

“I wasn’t going in blind. I saw you on the cameras.” When Martín shook his head, Andrés continued. “I couldn’t have left you there. You know I wouldn’t have.”

Martín pushed Andrés back and straddled him with way more ease than would be expected of someone with his injuries. Something had shifted in the way he was breathing, he couldn't quite name it - anticipation? arousal? - but Andrés accepted the change, motionless as if afraid not to scare Martín. They stayed like that for a few long minutes, reading each other in the faint light breaching the windows. And then Andrés moved up, cupping Martín’s head and pulling him into a kiss. 

Just like lighting a match, they went from calm to fervor in a manner of seconds, hands grabbing, feeling, pulling closer. Maybe it was the relative darkness of the room that emboldened them, but they made quick work of discarding their clothes, Andrés helping a wincing Martín out of his t-shirt before immediately going back in for a messy kiss. 

“You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to do this.” Martín whispered, and Andrés felt it, the bottled up need in those words, a hint of fear barely hidden around the edges. And if Martín had the courage, Andrés found his too.

“I know. I’ve wondered too, what it would be like. What you would be like.” Spectacular, it seemed; Martín was like nothing he’d ever expected, nothing like he’d ever felt. Maybe that’s why he accepted Martín’s request so easily - a whispered, “ _fuck me_ ”, slow, almost timid in the crook of Andrés’ neck. He thought for a second to roll themselves around, to straddle Martín, to pin him down and to just _take_ , but a small pained gasp when he touched his chest reminded him of the bruises. 

“Don’t move.” He untangled himself from under Martín and got up to rummage through his pants pocket, retrieving a packet from his wallet. When he turned around, Martín was kneeling on the bed, suddenly unselfconscious, bold, staring him down. 

“You have the most beautiful body.” Martín said, sitting on his heels, spreading his knees just a bit wider, making Andrés wonder whether that move was unconscious or purely for show. The fact was, there was a naked and very erect Argentine in his bed, and Andrés was going to fuck him. And the thought simply delighted him. 

“I have to say I admire your coping mechanisms, though I don’t fully agree with their effectiveness.”

“Coping mechanism my ass. Get here.” 

Andrés climbed back on the bed, arranging himself as they were, with Martín straddling him. _This._ This had to be Andrés’ favorite face of Martín. Not the powerful look he had with the jewelry store manager, not the resolute one he had with the guards. Not even the confident, shameless one he had that morning with the rope. It was this particular look, the one with the warm, pleading-hungry eyes, so open that Andrés could read Martín’s soul in them. He loved that look. And he loved Martín, he realised; way, way later than he had any right to. 

Martín tore at the packet with his teeth, retrieving the condom, then leaning in to wrap his lips around Andrés’ cock, lapping at it wetly, messily, then declaring, “A wet cock is a good cock.” Andrés’s flesh gave a twitch in return at the words, making Martín bob his head to catch him and swallow him back down. He was expecting many things, but maybe not that Martín liked dirty talk. What a lovely addition. 

“Since you don’t seem to carry lube - rude, by the way - I’m going to need you to help me. Get these wet for me?” He offered two fingers for Andrés, who sucked at them without thinking, while Martín managed to roll on the condom with one hand, in the dark. 

No way that would be enough, he thought, mentally adding lube to the list of things to always keep on his person. Martín didn’t seem to agree, judging by the gasps and small grunts he gave as he worked himself open, throwing his head back as he rode his own fingers languidly. Andrés was holding his breath when Martín positioned himself and guided him just right, but was soon gasping for air as the clenching heat sank down on him. Martín moaned, leaning down for a kiss, the change in angles making them both gasp, followed by a couple more pained ones from Martín. It was obvious that the new position was hurting him, so Andrés pushed himself up, arranging them both so he could have a better grip. Martín took control at first, setting the pace - hurried but steady - and soon Andrés took over, leaning on one hand for leverage. 

It was as though they had been doing this for years, moves synchronized, never breaking rhythm, not even when Martín took his cock in his hand, starting to jerk himself. A new image to Andrés, who never thought he’d find the male form so carnally appealing but there he was, relishing in the sight. It’s not that he hadn’t seen Martín naked before; he’d seen him in all his glory more than a couple of times, but it never had the dimension of desire it held at that moment. It was difficult to fight the urge to roll Martín around, to pin him to the bed and fuck him with all the pent up need he seemed to only now discover the depths of. But this was perfect, he could work with this, work himself inside the warm body in his arms, breathless, especially seeing the almost wrecked look on Martín’s face, his newly discovered cockiness melted into nothing short of ecstasy. Andrés felt the familiar wave of the impending orgasm gather right as Martín picked up the pace, and he watched his shoulders tighten as he threw his head back and came, long spurts painting both their chests. He followed suit nearly immediately, the crash of orgasm spurred on by Martín’s moans. 

_Alea iacta est_. What a pretentious thing for Andrés to think, but how right. Though, now that he was on the other side, he didn’t know precisely how to proceed. 

*

Turns out not a great deal of things changed between them - well, save for the frequent kisses and the occasional screw in the most inappropriate of places (really Martín, a blowjob at the _opera,_ what the fuck?). They had just pulled off a rather ambitious bank heist, getting away both with the money and their lives, just as Andrés preferred it, and it was time to relocate once again. 

“What do you say about Berlin?” He asked, and Martín nodded without giving it much thought. So they made their way to Berlin.

When unpacking, Martín found a couple of coils of rope and he pulled them up, calling for Andrés’ attention. He didn’t use words, just raised his eyebrow and cocked his head, and Andrés understood. Well, sort of.

“Oh god, are you thinking about that morning? With the rope, that, that… harness thing. I have to admit it looked rather stunning on you.”

“I was thinking I’d make it look stunning on you, too. If you let me.”

The thought never occurred to Andrés, but if he were honest, he didn’t dislike the idea.

“We’ll have to put that rope through the wash first, though.” 

“Now that you said that, I’d rather go buy some new rope; what’s the German word for it? _Seil?_ ”

“We’d have to put that through the wash first, too.”

Martín honest-to-god rolled his eyes and went straight to the washing machine.

Andrés found himself in his bedroom, naked, hair still clinging wetly to his forehead as he watched Martín try to fold the rope exactly in half and failing to do so a couple of times before deciding imperfect was good enough. He placed the rope around Andrés’ neck then measured, _of course he’d measure, he was an engineer after all,_ using three of his fingers to guide him until he found the precise height he wanted and made the first knot. Three more followed, the lowest just above Andrés’ groin, then the ropes went to the sides of his cock and right along his asscrack. Then up and underneath the loop at the neck, and then Andrés lost track, Martín moving slowly between his front and back, sometimes kneeling to get a better view, other times circling his hands around his torso to pull both ends of the ropes at the same time. Every once in a while, pulling the ropes coming from the sides opened the space between the knots into diamonds, the whole thing becoming a geometric piece of art. Martín tied the ends of the rope while holding Andrés, arms around him, looking over his shoulder, so he took advantage of their positioning to steal a kiss once he was done.

Andrés took a few steps to watch himself in the full mirror across the room, turning to see all details. Though it wasn’t as intricate or impressive as the one Martín had worn that morning, it was still fascinating, and he loved how it both wasn’t uncomfortable while still making itself felt in places when he moved or breathed deeper. Quite the interesting feeling, this _sex thing_ , Andrés thought.

“What now?”

“Now we fuck.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my fade to ~~black~~ fuck. I'm working on a third chapter but I don't know if it will ever see the light of day.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ dormarunt for like, not just LCDP stuff I guess?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just smut. Pages and pages of smut. (with some edging) #proud
> 
> OR
> 
> "Get in loser, we're doing butt stuff!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wouldn't exist if it wasn't for the insistence of a couple of people (and maybe it should have stayed that way? Anyway, too late now!) Since I can't gift just a chapter to someone I'll gift the entire fic to @boom_slap because, frankly, she was the first to refuse the idea of a 'fade to fuck', and, therefore, this smuttiness was born.

The harness felt strange, especially now that Andrés was on his back - he finally understood how it would be difficult to sleep in - but it didn’t hinder his movements one bit. He settled on the mattress, one arm folded under his head and began checking out Martín at the foot of the bed.

“Do you want me to tie your hands as well? I can make a really pretty tie, elbows to knees and wrists to ankles; we have enough rope I think.” Martín was turning to walk towards the door.

“Wait.” Andrés got up on an elbow. “I think you’re working under the wrong assumption here.”

Martín stopped and turned, a look of pure amusement on his face. “And what assumption is that?”

“I may be wrong here, but I won’t be able to fuck you if you tie me like that.”

“No, that’s absolutely correct.” And he continued to the door, returning not long after with a few more coils of rope. Andrés had taken those couple of minutes to think about what exactly Martín was implying. He was an adventurous man, curious and with an honest appreciation and enthusiasm for exploring the human form - moreso than he seemed to think for quite a while. So why not this? He remembered Martín’s rapt look when they fucked; sure it looked like pain at times, but the best kind of pain, the kind that soon firmly planted itself into pleasure. 

Martín climbed into bed with him, placing the rope somewhere out of view. He seemed aware of the kind of thoughts that had been going through Andrés’ head with no words having actually been uttered. “You don’t have to, obviously. But you’re so… Fuck. You should see yourself, this isn’t even much of a harness and you’re simply striking.” Then he added, like it was absolutely nothing scandalous. “I just want to see the kind of sounds I can pull out of you; I don’t have to fuck you for that.” Andrés was maybe just a little bit reeling from the bluntness, and then Martín made it worse - or better? “Though it would sure help. And I would really like to tie your hands if you let me, I bet you're gorgeous when you squirm, unable to control everything. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Mind blank, Andrés found himself non-verbal, so he nodded, throat dry. How was Martín so good at discovering kinks he didn’t even know he had? Didn’t matter, cause Martín was already on his knees, uncoiling the rope. “I’ll spare you the technicalities, but these aren’t long enough for what I had in mind. But at least they’re the same length. Now,” he said, carefully lying down one of the ropes, “this is what I’ll do. I’ll leave your arms untied - I don’t want you to feel _too_ out of control, too exposed. Though you’ll be exposed enough with your shins tied to your thighs. Place your foot flat on the bed.” Andrés obeyed, a mild feeling of something more curious than uneasy gathering in his gut. 

Once more, Andrés got to see Martín wrestle to find the middle of the rope, a task he took to with considerably more calm this time. He wrapped it tightly - but not blood-restricting tight - a couple of times above Andrés’ ankle, then made a twist and a loop, pushing the ankle as close as possible to the thigh, coiling the rope around the thigh and shin, three, four, five times. Andrés wondered how could it manage to not slip right off, but then Martín twisted it over and under itself, right on the outside of the space where his calf met his thigh. He did the twisted loops at every horizontal point, then snaked behind the ankle and did them on the inside of the thighs as well.

Strange sensation, to feel so secure, so constricted in a position that absolutely did not hurt, but it gave this exquisitely limited mobility. He became acutely aware of his exposed position as Martín was working to finish the tie on the other foot, his own fingers curiously feeling the knots on the finished tie. With a couple of last wraps of the end of the rope, Martín sat on his heels right between Andrés’ spread and bound legs, sporting the most satisfied grin, that barely hidden cockiness of his now obviously out to play. 

“It’s usually the case with you controlling types. The powerful, the ones that so effortlessly dominate out there. No, no, don’t take it the wrong way, I understand perfectly how this goes. Remember, I’ve been into this for a while. The whole dynamic too, on occasion. I understand how freeing it can be, to give in, to not make conscious choices for once. To accept, enjoy, and be thankful. I won’t do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable; remember you’re still in charge here. You just have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Truth, even in the face of novelty. 

“Good. Then. Relax, enjoy.” 

Enjoy, sure. Andrés remembered brokenly a time when he made a passionate apology of enjoyment to his brother, about how you’re supposed to _live_ life, to wring as much pleasure from it as possible because otherwise, what’s the point? The point was, right now, in this _right here_ , on this bed, wrapped in this fucking rope; the point was that he was enjoying the fuck out of it. Martín was there, kneeling between his knees, admiring in silence, and Andrés was simply basking in the feeling. He let his knees fall to the side, tendons pulling and bringing forth just a hint of pain, but it wasn’t bad. None of it was bad, it was quite the opposite of bad, even the uncertainty and that rabbity pace his heart took when facing a situation that he didn’t know what to expect from; it was all naked anticipation.

“I didn’t tie your hands,” Martín said and Andrés still heard the unspoken ‘ _this time_ ’, “but would you brace yourself against the headboard for me? There, that’s it. Hold on and try not to move them.”

Martín slithered across his body, coming in for a kiss, then pecking around Andrés’ neck and cheeks, licking from under his jaw up to his temple, like it was a thing that people normally did. He felt the hot breath against his ear, as if Martín was trying to say something, but in the end he didn’t, dipping right between Andrés’ legs with nothing but a mischievous grin. 

He expected those oh, so familiar lips around his dick but no, of course not, nothing about that evening was as expected. Martín went even lower - Andrés tensed up slightly - and pushed the bound legs up, folded against his lover’s abdomen, then spread them out. Before he had a chance to form a thought, something wet and firm pressed against hole then lapped up, right to his balls and Andrés just keened. He had a previous girlfriend do this to him a while back, but it was nothing like this, it had been tentative and short-lived and he didn’t get to enjoy it properly before it was over. This was nothing like he remembered, it was firm, unashamed, relentless. Rushed and still thorough, giving him all the time to enjoy the tendrils of _want_ coil themselves in his groin, gather in his balls, then blossom upwards in his abdomen. He’d notice this about himself, how pleasure seemed to amplify when he was with Martín, how it traveled, no longer contained just to his cock like he was so used to, taking and giving that much more. 

Then one finger pressed, just slightly, right at the center of his hole, the tongue still flicking around it and again, _again_ , Andrés froze, unable, unsure, though not exactly unwilling.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” 

How he managed to whisper a ragged _‘no’_ , he couldn’t tell, but he looked down, finally unlacing his knuckles from the headboard. “No, don’t stop.” He clarified, carding his white knuckles - had he really been holding on so tight? - through Martín’s hair, watching as he got up and fished a bottle of lube from god knows where.

“I’m going to make this real good for you.”

Andrés didn’t doubt that for a second.

“Hands back.”

He could get into this, he really could, Andrés thought. Though it was usually him who made people effortlessly obey commands, this time, in this _right now_ , he enjoyed being free of the responsibility. He’d shifted slightly - when had he shifted? - and his hands barely made it to the headboard, but he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the mattress, knuckles pressed between linen and wood.

“Good, you’re so good. Now. I don’t want you to come just yet.” And Andrés thought, _how presumptuous_ , but only until Martín’s finger pressed back, cold, slick, “You’ll get to come when I tell you to come, how does that sound?”

It sounded pretty fantastic, a bit sad but hey, sure, he could do that.

Probably. 

When the finger slipped in to the first knuckle, he changed his mind to “maybe”, and when he felt Martín’s hot breath against the root of his cock, licking wetly in a place that really should not have been able to give that much pleasure, he downgraded the probabilities to “hopefully.”

He wasn’t a teenager anymore; _thank fuck for that_ Andrés started telling himself once he began to appreciate the art of the Long, Slow Fuck, now having the time, the stamina and oh, all the knowledge of a man who, what’s the elegant way of saying “goes around”? Yes, that. He’s not shy, he’s not a teenager. Except for when he is with Martín. Of course everything about that man would be an exception when filtered through his reality. That’s why he nearly panics when Martín’s finger slips in deeper, pushing up molten waves of pleasure; he wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t also wasn’t expecting the tongue to return and lick around the knuckle buried deep within him, the sensation dulled somewhat by the slickness of the lube and the alien fullness of that one single digit inside him. Andrés almost laughs at all of this, and that somehow makes him clench, and Martín straight up moans. 

_Fuck me_ , Andrés wants to say, even though he feels like he maybe hadn’t thought it through enough. He feels the need to be filled, now, and maybe if he thinks too much about it he’ll change his mind. And he does _not_ want to change his mind. Thoughts dissipate once Martín’s fingers wrap around his cock and start a lazy rhythm, and Andrés doesn’t remember what he wanted to say. He thinks, weirdly, that he’s been quiet for too long, so he mulls for a bit before coming up with, “Good. This is so good.”

Martín looks up, barely prying his eyes away from where his finger slowly fucks into Andrés before locking his gaze and licking his free palm, smiling like he couldn’t choose between amusement and looking sexy. Andrés is very grateful that Martín is quiet, he isn’t sure he could take another casually thrown filthy remark, like he always does. “ _A wet cock is a good cock_ ” is still imprinted in his memory, as is “ _I want to hold on to your gun holster when I ride you tonight_ ”, whispered casually when he was holding a couple of hostages to gunpoint. Oh, yeah, like a harness, he discovers and is way too proud of his seemingly single working braincell. 

Time for thoughts to dispel again once Martín blessedly wraps his mouth around his cock, all heat and wetness and rolls of the tongue. That’s it, that’s all it takes, he’s going to come.

Except he doesn’t, Martín instantly catching on to the sudden tightness in his muscles and retreating all but that finger in his ass, the one that’s still slowly fucking in and out, in and out, lighting up nerves in its wake. 

“Not yet, cariño.”

Disappointment wrapped in relief, Andrés thinks he’s nodding - he’s not sure - but he still _needs_. 

“Fuck, Martín.” Words, finally words. “I want to fuck you, I want to--”

“I know. But not this time, love. This time I’m taking care of you.” And it was such a strange feeling; even though they’d always taken care of each other, it still felt like it was Andrés’ duty, in a perverted way, to take care of Martín. In all ways he could, in all the ways he’d recently discovered. Martín wasn’t helpless, he wasn’t a fucking damsel in distress, he didn’t need saving, but he deserved care, and Andrés always gave it to him unconditionally. “Besides, I’m enjoying this too much.” And he bent down again, swallowing Andrés’ cock, wrapping his fingers where his mouth couldn’t reach, building a slow staccato. 

Right before everything blurred around the edges again, Andrés became aware of it; the sharp push of the knots and twists against his spine, and to a level he understood it should have felt more uncomfortable than it did, but it didn’t, not even the rough nub of rope pressing against his lower back. The whole contraption felt rather fantastic; of course it would. Even the ties around his knees - Martín had called them _pretty,_ of all things - even though they called up small shots of pain from the tendons in his groin, they helped. Helped keep him open, exposed just as Martín had said, uncovering that previously hidden side of Andrés that liked to feel powerless. He’d have to analyze that in more depth, but at a later time, when enough blood rushed back to his brain. 

Not now, clearly, because Martín withdrew his finger and Andrés was suddenly annoyed. He didn’t have time to open his eyes before the finger was back, joined by another one, equally slick, equally prodding. The stretch felt too much for about a fraction of a second, then wrapped around itself until the fullness became pleasure once more, building way, way too fast into something that Andrés really craved, but was still somewhat aware that he _wasn’t supposed_ to have. 

“No.” He didn’t ask, he said. Instantly, Martín stopped, looking up with concern, and Andrés shook his head a couple of times. “Not yet, I’m going to come. Stop.”

Martín melted in such a delightful smile, eyes softening as he came up to kiss him, whispering “I’m so proud of you” in their kiss, between nips at Andrés’ lips and barely-kisses on his chin. “Thank you for listening to me, you’ve been so good.” And fuck, yeah, Andrés definitely liked the sound of that, I mean he knew he had this pathological need for approval but that was ridiculous, what Martín was doing to him. “You’ve been so good love, you deserve to come." Then, changing gears completely, "I’m going to move you to your side.” 

Moving wasn’t easy, not after being splayed out like that for so long, but Andrés managed to gingerly settle on his side, Martín pasted to his back, one knee up, pressing his crotch to Andrés’ buttocks. He could feel Martín shuffle behind him, grabbing the ends of the rope that were riding up his asscrack and spreading them to the sides, then pinning his hard cock between their bodies and molding himself against Andrés’ bottom. 

“Are you okay like this?” Whispers between kisses and small nips against his shoulders, and Andrés nodded. A hand came up from between his bound legs, giving his strained muscles some relief, and a palm wrapped around Andrés’ cock. “I’m going to make you come now. Don’t hold back.”

Not that there was a way to stop the buildup, not when Martín started to grind against his ass, cock twitching between their bodies, and especially not with that… _thing_ he did with his palm to the tip of Andrés’ cock, the one that never worked when he tried it himself but always, always worked under Martín’s skin. It was that, even when the hand on his dick started to jerk him roughly, that feeling that lingered, twining itself with the other spots of his body that were sending random shocks, like the lines of skin where the rope pulled, the feeling of _otherness_ in his now empty ass, his legs bound open just so. With every jerk of the hand and every thrust against his ass, the twine of pleasure wound tighter and tighter, and when he felt it again - the impending waves of orgasm - he tried to grab blindly behind himself, to touch Martín, to warn, to ask for permission. He came right as Martín licked wetly along the rope going up his spine and the addition made everything simply disintegrate as he spilled against Martin's fist in thick spurts. 

His cock was still twitching when he felt Martín pick up the pace behind him and bury his fingers in his thigh as he came, warm wetness slicking the space between their bodies.

“So good.” Martín said, satiated, moving just a bit to allow Andrés to roll once more to his back, come spreading across the sheets underneath him.  
  
“So good.” he echoed. 

“Let me undo the ropes.”

Andrés nodded lazily. “Do I need to move?”

Turns out he didn’t, well, not a lot anyway. The ropes around his thighs were easier to undo and his legs felt so foreign all splayed out, but the full body harness needed Andrés to turn from his stomach to his back a couple of times until it came off. While Martín worked meticulously to undo the last twists and knots, careful to avoid rope burn against sensitive skin, Andrés' blood seemed to finally find its way back to his brain, and all he could think of, all he could say, was,

“I didn’t know you were that much into kink.”

“I bet you didn’t know you were that much into butstuff either.”

And that was also true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned somewhere in the comments, the harness Andres is in is a "basic" Rope Dress, and his legs are in a simple Futomomo tie. (Martin is no _artist_ , okay?)
> 
> So, uh, hope you enjoy!  
> Come say hi on tumblr @ dormarunt, I'm literally nothing like this over there.


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